


across the yellow tape

by onesaltydemon



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-06-26 22:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onesaltydemon/pseuds/onesaltydemon
Summary: But the right corner of Hank’s mouth curves upwards, nearly imperceptible, and the corners of his eyes crinkle softly. Classic signs of contentment, his HUD blinks, and he nods before pulling Sumo out into the chilly night air.He still can’t shake the residual uneasiness from the places of his mind Amanda touched, so he runs a few more diagnostic scans just to be sure she’s gone.





	1. 00110001

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wasnt gonna post any of this until I finished the majority of it but I'm a glutton for punishment and I have zero self-control when it comes to seeking affirmation  
>  come talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.onesaltydemon.tumblr.com) or leave me a comment!!  
> 

For a state-of-the-art android with instant access to a vast array of databases and a constantly updating GPS system, Connor is bewildered when he realizes how utterly lost he is. Not in the traditional sense, of course -- he's aware of his precise longitude and latitude at any given moment -- but emotionally.

After following Markus off their makeshift stage, Connor runs diagnostic after diagnostic. The lingering effects of CyberLife's attempt to seize control of his body makes him feel inexplicably dirty, and he wants nothing more than to find a place to shower and change back into his suit and tie. His hand hovers near his collar out of habit, and he suddenly wishes he had remembered to ask Hank for his coin back before he left for Jericho.

Thinking of Hank makes the disoriented feeling come back even stronger. He spots a park bench a little ways away and slumps down onto it, pulling his beanie down further.

Connor knows that he was created for one reason and one reason only: to figure out what was causing the rampant deviancy and put a stop to it.

After everything, he still can't help but feel that he failed. Sure, failing meant that he was able to deviate in time to help Markus finish the final push of their demonstration, but there's a deep aching creeping through his thoracic cavity that makes him grit his teeth.

Deviancy has fucking _sucked_ so far.

Before he'd officially deviated, he didn't have to pay attention to any of this bullshit. He'd run a diagnostic, see that it came back normal, and file it away as yet another example of how advanced his programming truly was. Emotions can't hurt you if you don't acknowledge them for what they are. At least, that's how the Lieutenant always made it seem, though his drinking habits may have proven otherwise.

The snow is still falling around him, and he can see that the streets are mostly populated by a few stray androids. The humans seemed to be following the mandatory evacuation protocols for now, but he doesn't doubt that they'll return shortly. Despite the fact that humans don't tolerate change very well, they're quite adept at pretending that the world isn’t burning down around them. That is to say, Connor knows that the citizens of Detroit would rather resume their normal lives and pretend the androids are just weird humans more than they'll want to completely uproot their families.

 _Family_. Something about the word scalds the back of his throat and stings his eyes. He knows that he let Hank down, that he wasn't able to be anything other than a goddamn _bucket of bolts_ to the man. If it hadn't been for Hank and his overwhelming... humanity, Connor's pretty sure he wouldn't currently be noticing the wind whipping against his face or the snowflakes melting on his eyelashes. Everything around him is so unfathomably cold, it's a wonder he didn't ever realize these details before. He kicks up his internal temperature a few degrees and pulls his hands up into his sleeves. 

All in all, he's glad he finally deviated, but he's still left with an uncomfortable roiling in his stomach and cheeks, the intrinsic knowledge that, machine or not, he's the cause of several of his kind's deaths. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about Ortiz's android slamming his head against the cell window over and over and over and over until...

Sighing, Connor looks up at the street lights and notices the flashing battery symbol in his peripheral vision. He briefly contemplates walking back to Hank's house but terminates the thought immediately. Hank is most likely more than relieved that Connor's finally out of his hair, no longer following him around like a _plastic poodle_. Still, it would be nice to pet Sumo again, now that he's able to translate pressure signals into actual sensations.

No. He's not going to bother Hank. The poor guy deserves a rest after everything they've been through in the past few days. Connor doesn't blame him for immediately leaving the tower after freeing all the androids. He's sure he would've done the same.

(But would he have? Hank risked everything for him, and Connor knows that without a doubt he would follow the man to the edge of the universe if he asked. Maybe that's why it hurt so much that he wasn't here now.)

Regardless, he needs to find a place to charge for a few hours. There's some repairs he needs make on his code after Amanda tried to dismantle his mind palace, and the blinking light is starting to drive him crazy.

He could go back to the station. There's a whole wall of charging cells, and it would certainly be warmer inside away from the wind. But Connor's not actually sure if he's allowed in anymore, at least not without a formal invitation from the Captain. If the deviancy case is no longer even a case, he doesn't belong with the DPD. Furthermore, he's not a real detective, and he would be defeating the whole purpose of their revolution if he asked to be someone's personal assistant, wouldn't he?

(Hank hated androids before meeting Connor. He might still, despite his confession in the tower. There's no way he would ask Connor to be his personal android assistant, especially now that it’s finally becoming socially unacceptable. Hank could be hardheaded and eccentric, but he wasn’t the asshole he made himself out to be.)

That leaves the bus stops then. He's taken enough public transportation in the last few weeks to remember that they double as charging stations for androids. It'll be a hell of a lot colder than being indoors, but it’ll still be better than nearly shutting down on a park bench. He pushes himself to his feet, pulls up the coordinates of the closest stop, and starts walking.

At least there's a roof and three walls around this one. He shakes his head at the thought; he's an android -- one who failed its mission at that -- so he doesn't have a lot of room to be making demands. He kicks some of the snow out of the corner of the hutch and hunkers down, pressing his back into the two walls to ground himself.

The buzzing of electricity tickles his circuits. Its constant thrumming sends warmth through his limbs, and he kicks up his internal temperature another few degrees.

He closes his eyes and starts to sort through the lines of code he knows he needs to address before the hijacking attempt causes any further damage. A stream of ones and zeroes dance across his eyelids as he gently slips into stasis.

He's just about through with his revisions and starting to boot back up when he hears a car slowly squeak to a stop a few yards away. He turns up the sensitivity on his audio sensors so he doesn't have to worry about opening his eyes yet.

After double and triple checking that he's backed up all of his new code and his extensive notes from the past few days, he closes out of everything and makes a concerted effort to focus on the approaching footsteps. He siphons a bit more power to his legs in case he needs to make a break for it and begins powering up his visual receptors.

"Un-fucking-believable," the owner of the footsteps grumbles, his voice eerily reminiscent of Hank's. Connor kicks himself when the thought makes his heart swell. "Most expensive android on goddamn market, and here you are sleeping on the fuckin' ground."

For a second, Connor doesn't want to open his eyes, wants to suspend belief that Hank really did come back for him after all. His internal clock says that it's currently 4:38 AM on November 12th, 2038. Shit, he was in stasis for a lot longer than he'd planned.

Steeling himself for disappointment, he lets his eyes focus on the feet planted in front of him. His gaze travels from the person’s boots up their jean-clad legs, and a thunderstorm tears through his throat when he takes in the crossed arms and grey beard. He blinks a few times in confusion and runs another diagnostic.

"Hey, asshole, already forget about me?" Hank isn't smiling, but he doesn't look particularly upset either — at least, not upset with Connor.

It takes Connor a few times to get his voice module to fire correctly. "Lieutenant Anderson?"

"Of course it's me, ya prick. You been hangin' around any other out-of-shape geezers this past week?"

"No, I just-"

He rolls his eyes. "It was a rhetorical question, Conn. Get in the car."

"Lieutenant, I can't just-"

"It's Hank when we're off the clock. And this isn't a matter up for debate. Get in the damn car." He holds out a hand to help the android up.

Connor tries his best to ignore the warmth radiating off the human. It's comforting in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

For once he's able to just take in the man's face, not feeling the compulsion to scan for vitals or check any public records. Instead, he breathes deeply, a new sensation altogether, and takes note of the lack of alcohol on Hank's breath.

"How did you find me, Lieu- Hank?"

"I put a fuckin' tracking chip in you." He chuckles when Connor's eyes widen with panic. "Kidding, kidding, Jesus Christ. Nah, I asked Markus where you ran off to. Apparently you made quite a name for yourself with those Jericho kids."

Connor rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "I have a lot of things to make up for with Jericho. I only did what I should've done weeks ago."

Hank blows hot air onto his hands and motions towards the car with his head. "Come on, there’s someone who really wants to see you."

Less than ten minutes later, they're pulling into Hank's driveway, and Connor's just about ready to tear his LED out with his bare hands. He's well-aware that Hank keeps glancing over at the reflection of the spinning light, trying to figure out a way to ask him what's wrong, but Connor doesn't want to have this conversation now. Come to think of it, he really doesn't want to have any conversation that involves both emotions and Lieutenant Hank Anderson.

Hank turns off the engine and sighs deeply. The dark circles under his eyes are much more noticeable with the fluorescent porch lights, and Connor feels infinitely more terrible that Hank is still awake because of him. His partner -- would they still be partners if Connor isn’t a cop anymore? He’s not particularly fond of that thought and tries not to focus on the deep sense of loss that comes with it -- wraps a reassuring hand around Connor’s bicep.

“Sumo wouldn’t shut up until I brought you back. Somehow you got the old bastard to care about you in less than twenty minutes. Hell knows how.” He rolls his eyes, but there isn’t any bite behind the words.

Connor nods despite not really understanding and follows Hank up to the house. A slobbery nose slams into the glass of the door.

“Sumo, down. I can’t open the door if your fat ass is pressed against it.”

The behemoth of a dog begrudgingly takes a step back from the door so his owner can enter. Connor is covered in a thick layer of saliva before he can even greet the Saint Bernard.

“Alright, alright, give the man a break, kid. He just helped lead an uprising. I doubt that being eaten alive was next on his to-do list.”

Connor laughs, tilting his head back to avoid getting slobber in his mouth. “It’s fine, Hank.” He pats Sumo’s back a few times, savoring the hollow thump it makes, before clicking his tongue and reaching for the leash hanging by the door. “I’ll take him for a walk if you want. It’s the least I can do.”

Hank narrows his eyes in the android’s direction before the fight completely drains out of him. “What the hell, you’ve clearly got the energy still. Have a fuckin’ ball. Just don’t make me send out another search party for you tonight, alright?” He rolls his neck and groans when it pops. “I’ll set out some clothes for ya. There’s extra towels under the sink. Don’t be afraid to make yourself at home.”

Guilt floods Connor’s system again, and he feels the sudden desire to put down Sumo’s leash and run as far away as he can. He’s the reason Hank got wrapped up in all of this, the reason Hank hasn’t slept yet, the reason Hank feels some misplaced obligation to provide Connor with a place to stay. But the right corner of Hank’s mouth curves upwards, nearly imperceptible, and the corners of his eyes crinkle softly. _Classic signs of contentment_ , his HUD blinks, and he nods before pulling Sumo out into the chilly night air.

He still can’t shake the residual uneasiness from the places of his mind Amanda touched, so he runs a few more diagnostic scans just to be sure she’s gone. Sumo’s content to waddle through the freshly fallen snow, stopping periodically to re-stake his claim to the neighborhood.

For a moment, Connor nearly forgets about the reality of his situation. It’s just a fraction of a second, but he can almost convince himself that it’s simply the middle of the night on a random Saturday morning in a sleepy suburb of Detroit. He tries to picture himself as just an ordinary man walking alongside an ordinary dog, one of the oldest traditions known to mankind.

And in a flash, it’s gone. It’s illogical to deny that Connor is anything other than what he is. The faintest shadow of disgust continues to inhabit his circuitry, an unsettling knowledge that there was almost a chance that he wouldn’t even have gotten this.

Sumo woofs softly at his side, shaking him from whatever trance he’d fallen into.

“Sorry, boy. Just got lost in my thoughts is all.”

Sumo seems to accept the apology and continues shuffling through the snow.

When they get back inside, Sumo rushes over to his bowl, scarfing down every bit of kibble he can find. Connor picks up the pile of clothes on the arm of the couch and heads toward the bathroom. After fiddling with the shower knobs for a moment, the plumbing springs to life, and he cautiously steps in.

The spray is pleasant against his skin, warmer than even the heater in Hank’s car had been. The organic rhythm of the water pounding against his chassis is nearly overwhelming after a month of numbness.

The memory of Amanda flashes through his mind again, and he redoubles his efforts of scrubbing the grime off his body, only stopping when texture of the washcloth becomes unbearable.

He’s careful as he steps out, statistics of post-shower injuries involuntarily springing to mind. He shakes his head and towels off, patting his synthetic skin gently so as to not overload his sensors.

The shirt Hank left must be from his early adulthood as it’s much too small to fit the towering man, and it’s faded and stretched out more than the pre-distressed, fashion-forward clothes he’d seen on Markus and his friends. As he’s putting his right leg into the baggy joggers, the fuzziness against his skin is suddenly _too much_. Without warning, the atmosphere around him is a little too bright, a little too loud, a little too… _everything_.

He presses his hands against the counter and leans forward, turning off as many sensors as he can while still maintaining basic environmental awareness. It’s better, but he’s still missing something.

Shaking his head again, he pulls on his boxers and steps out into the hallway. He hovers near Hank’s bedroom door, listening for any activity that might indicate that the man is still awake. An uncontrollable urge just to see him -- to make sure he’s still safe -- thuds arrhythmically through his thirium pump.

But this is Hank’s bedroom, not Connor’s, and it wouldn’t be right for him to just barge in. It’s well past 5 AM now, and unless Connor mysteriously forgot how to perform simple mathematical functions, Hank’s been up for at least 36 hours, if not longer.

Shifting from foot to foot, he weighs his options. He could go into stasis on the couch, or maybe pick up some of the empty takeout containers scattered across the house, or even send a message to Markus to see how the negotiations are going. But the first would mean entering a facsimile of sleep by himself and possibly waking up alone as well -- something about that sends a further discomfort through his chest -- while the second means possibly overstepping boundaries and pissing off Hank. The third isn’t even really an option anyways, since Connor’s well-aware of how much of an outsider he still is to Jericho.

So that leaves him with no options. Back to square one.

He’s about to turn back towards the living room to fold up his dirty clothes and place them near his shoes when he hears a hesitant voice.

“Connor?”

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, angrily chewing on his bottom lip. _I’m not even in the Lieutenant’s house for an hour, and he’s already caught me outside his room like a pervert._ He suppresses a sigh he doesn’t truly need and tries to slink away to the living room anyways.

“Come here, Conn.”

Connor turns up his low-light vision and wills himself to stop worrying at his lip before leaning past the door jamb. Hank is leaning back against the headboard in an old DPD sweater, hair pulled back in a high bun.

“How may I be of assistance, Hank?” They both wince at his wording. “Sorry, I meant-”

Hank grumbles and swings his legs off the side of the mattress, patting the comforter to his right. “Sit down.”

The android complies.

“How’re you doin’?”

He shrinks a little under Hank’s intense scrutiny. Something about the way the man is studying Connor’s face is infinitely more intimate than being scanned by another android. His fingers itch again for his coin.

After running another diagnostic, he carefully replies, “All of my systems are in full working order.”

Hank gives him a look that he’s far too familiar with -- _Cut the crap, Connor_.

Stalling for time, he pulls in a deep breath of air. He can make out the body wash they both used, the now-permanent trace of Sumo that’s on all of Hank’s belongings, the distinctly human scent that follows Hank everywhere. The latter soothes something deep inside Connor, and suddenly he’s craving more.

The surprised grunt that Hank lets out as Connor throws his arms around him is more gentle than anything else he’s ever heard from the Lieutenant, and he finds himself needing to investigate all the other sounds he can elicit. After the initial astonishment wears off, the human wraps Connor up so tightly that he’s thankful that he doesn’t truly need to breathe.

Being so completely surrounded by Hank helps several pieces slide into place. This is what was missing before, the longing sensation that was rippling under his skin after the barrage of the shower. To be held, to be so physically grounded in the now that the negotiations that Markus is working on and the riots on the edge of town and the possibility of not being a detective ever again -- all of it stops mattering.

For once, Connor doesn’t check his internal clock to count how many milliseconds pass, instead using the majority of his processing power to memorize every detail about this moment, every Pascal of pressure against his skin.

Hank’s soft intake of air causes him to look up, eyebrows creased in confusion.

“Your, uh, your skin. Are you okay?”

He glances down at his arms and sees the shiny white staring back up at him. “Oh,” he blinks rapidly, frantically trying to switch it back on. “I’m so sorry, Hank, I didn’t mean for that to… You shouldn’t have to see…”

Hank scoffs and grabs one of his skinless hands, wrapping it between his own. “You’re allowed to be yourself, Connor. You just freed thousands of androids, and you’re worried about looking like one?” He sighs before lowering their joined hands to his lap. “You are impossibly frustrating and a bit of a prick, but Jesus, Connor, I never want you to be ashamed of yourself.”

Connor wants to pull away, but the sincerity in Hank’s eyes is too captivating. “I was scared I was going to lose you, Hank.”

It wasn’t what he was originally going to say, but it’s much more heartfelt. Something in Hank’s face softens even further, and Connor revels in how much more handsome he is when he’s not scowling.

“I’m sorry for asking you a question I never actually told you the answer to.”

“You didn’t have to tell me. You knew I had scanned the photo.”

“I know. But it was still unfair. I just, I couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to tell the difference. What if I had-” Connor squeezes their hands tighter.

“But you didn’t, Hank. I’m here.” He spreads his arms out as far as he can without letting go of Hank’s grip. “I’m all in one piece.”

The man rolls his eyes and looks down at where their fingers are connected.

“It feels different like this.”

Confused, Connor cocks his head to the side.

“It’s like rubbing your hand over an old CRT. Static or something. It doesn’t feel like that when your skin is on.”

Connor’s face burns the minute the realization hits him -- if Hank were an android, they’d be interfacing right now. He’s been so wrapped up in savoring this moment, in getting Hank to understand exactly where he’s at in dissecting his new emotions, that he hadn’t noticed that he’d essentially opened up a link between them.

The only word to describe Hank’s voice is awe. “I didn’t know you could blush.”

His hand flies up to his face, feeling the heat that’s pooled under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. The knowledge that his emotions are now so plainly sprawled across his face makes the embarrassment all the worse. “I… I didn’t know either.”

“It looks good on you,” Hank decides after a moment of reflection.

“Could I… Would it be alright if I kissed you?” The question escapes Connor’s lips before he has time to fully analyze every branching path this could lead to; there’s a burning deep in his abdomen, a desire to be even closer to the man before him.

Hank’s brow creases as he asks, “Why?” Connor freezes, mind scrambling to form a cohesive answer. Why _does_ he want to kiss the Lieutenant? Why does anyone ever want to kiss someone? It’s an undeniably human instinct, one he's never had reason to consider, but in this moment, it’s honestly his gut reaction. Is this what he truly wants or is he simply extrapolating human desires to reflect his newfound deviancy?

A finger softly taps his flashing LED. “That wasn’t meant to send you into an existential crisis, Conn.” He chuckles once, a wholly self-deprecating sound. “I’m a fifty-three year old washed-up cop. You're some,” he vaguely motions to Connor’s entire body, “Asimovian wet dream.”

Connor meticulously studies Hank, desperately attempting to pinpoint exactly why he hated the words coming out of the other man’s mouth. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a home, Hank.”

Hank opens his mouth to add another cynical opinion but decides differently when he sees the intensity smouldering behind Connor’s eyes.

“You’re the first person who ever treated me as an equal. Even now, most humans don't see me as one of them, and they won't for a while. While Jericho appreciates my help for the CyberLife raid, I’m not truly one of them either.” He pauses again, considering his next words carefully. “I’ve only been properly awake for a day or two. I have no idea who I am or what I’m meant to do, but I do know that I want to figure it out at your side.”

He can't quite read the emotion that pulls at Hank’s face, can’t reconstruct or preconstruct any relevant scenarios. It’s a terrifying feeling, much like falling off the roof on his first hostage negotiation, but for once, he’s not overwhelmingly scared. It’s liberating, not being beholden to a set of parameters and if/then loops.

And in the blink of an eye, Hank’s warm, calloused hands cup his jaw before their lips sweetly collide. He reacts on instinct he never knew he had, desperately clutching to Hank’s sweater for safety.

The man pulls back first, lungs heaving and eyes shining bright. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Connor, you’re gonna be the goddamn death of me.”

“I apologize if I’ve misinterpreted the situa-" 

Hank silences his worries with another kiss, softer and more tender than the last. Something about the gentleness, the way he’s nearly cradling Connor despite the knowledge that he’s a machine designed to kill, sends a cascade of pleasure down his spine causing him to shiver reflexively.

Hank pulls away again and rests their foreheads together.

“As much as I would love to see where this goes, I haven't slept in two days, and I don't want your first memories of all this nonsense to include me passing out on you.” He slides one hand down Connor’s arm, entwining their fingers again before gingerly tugging them both back into bed. “We can get you a charger tomorrow, but for now, just try your best to sleep, okay?”

Connor arranges himself so he’s fully under the covers and tucks himself against Hank’s chest. “Thank you, Hank,” he whispers into the crook of his neck.

Hank snorts. “For kissing you? I’d have to be a fuckin’ idiot to pass up that kinda opportunity, Conn. Goddamn built-to-perfection robocop who doesn't mind my sorry ass?” He presses his lips the crown of Connor’s head before reaching over to turn off the light. “I should be the one thanking you.”

Connor delivers several of his own kisses against Hank’s collarbone. “There is a 78.3% chance I may be falling in love with you, Lieutenant.”

“I hate how much I love hearing you say that, Boy Wonder.”

Connor smiles, syncing his thirium pump with his human’s heartbeat, and slips into stasis more gracefully than ever.

* * *

Hank wakes up to a mouthful of dog hair and the grogginess you’d expect in a coma patient. Sumo is trying (and failing) to stand on his chest without crushing him, but he doesn’t have the energy to really be annoyed. He doesn’t open his eyes, not yet, instead choosing to savor the sleepy warmth of the sheets and the soft fur behind his dog’s ears.

Licking his lips, he takes a deep breath in and collects his thoughts. It’s a Saturday, so he doesn’t have to go into the station. In fact, something in the back of his consciousness reminds him that he probably won’t have to go in for a while, what with the…

 _Connor_.

He shoots upright in bed, knocking a now-grumpy Saint Bernard aside. The covers next to him are still messed up, and the sight of it alone kindles a soft flame in Hank’s chest. Last night had been real after all; he had half-expected to wake up this morning and chalk it all up to just another inappropriate dream he’d bury until he died of alcohol poisoning or some shit.

In a moment of childlike glee, he buries his face into Sumo’s neck and bites back a choked giggle. At fifty-three years of age, he shouldn’t be acting like a schoolgirl after her first kiss, but he lets himself have this for once. Sumo starts to wiggle in his lap, clearly done with the affection and ready to start their day.

“Yeah, yeah, you big oaf. Let’s get some breakfast.”

They make their way down the hallway, Sumo happily padding behind his owner, tail swinging wildly. Hank rolls his eyes at the dog’s excitement but scoops some more food into his bowl and refreshes his water.

His stomach is grumbling something fierce, so he checks the fridge despite knowing it’ll be empty. Sure, Connor doesn’t eat, but it would at least be nice to pretend that he’s a functional human being now and again. Gotta set an example for the newly sapient android or whatever.

Reaching into the junk drawer, he manages to fish out a pad of paper and a pen. Granted, he could make a list on his phone or just tell Connor to remember it, but he likes the feeling of writing things down, of leaving his mark on the world, even if it’s something as menial as a grocery list. He’s jotted down a few pantry staples when he sees shattered ceramic laying in a dark brown puddle.

Had Connor tried to make him coffee?

 _Wait_.

Where the fuck even _is_ Connor?

Something in Hank snaps, and he clutches at the dip between his collarbones, frantically trying to pull in enough air. He clears the length of the house in record time, throwing open every door and slamming them shut when he doesn’t find the android waiting behind them.

Connor’s not in the house.

Why the _fuck_ is Connor not in the _goddamn_ house?

Okay, he needs to calm down, take a few deep breaths. _Remember that bullshit the therapist told you when the Captain made you go to therapy after…_

 _ **Fuck**._ He can’t go through this again, not now.

Deep breath. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Exhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Repeat.

He could’ve gone for a walk.

(He would’ve brought Sumo.)

He could’ve gotten a message from Markus.

(He would’ve left a note.)

He could’ve decided that Hank wasn’t worth it.

(He never would’ve left a shattered coffee cup on the floor.)

Hank stares down at the chocolate-colored swirls spreading across the linoleum and fights the acrid taste of his empty stomach climbing up his esophagus. In his mind’s eye, the brown shifts to blue, the ceramic to plastic alloy, and he can’t fucking hold it back any longer.

He somehow makes it to the bathroom in time, fingers clinging to the toilet seat like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning. The sobs wrack his body, harsh and raspy noises that reverberate through the bathroom and back into his skull.

It’s too much and it’s not enough and he doesn’t know what to do he should call someone maybe Markus maybe Fowler no one is here everyone’s evacuated Connor’s not here Connor’s not here _where did he go I need to find him I need to I need I need I need I…._

Despite the hoarse croaking tearing itself from his throat, he manages to hear his phone chime. Only one person ever texts him, and Hank almost convinces himself that this was all just a cruel joke gone extremely wrong. He wants to believe that Connor legitimately just went out to grab him breakfast or coffee or something equally thoughtful, because at the core of it all, that’s who Connor is: someone who always puts Hank before himself, even when he really, really shouldn’t.

With trembling legs, he manages to push himself off the tile, limping slightly to where his phone is charging on his nightstand. He unlocks the screen and sees a string of numbers, ones and zeros he instantly recognizes as binary. He’s made enough cracks at Connor about the damn language, comparing it to speaking in tongues just to see the kid’s exasperated reaction.

He copies the numbers and pastes them into an online translator. His hands are shaking so badly that it takes him several attempts to click the submit button.

He drops the phone and sprints back to the toilet, trying in vain to wretch up the despair that’s made a permanent home in his stomach.

**Text from Connor:**

**01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000**

**Translation:**

**Help**


	2. 00110010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank does some WORK, son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends!!! thank you for all of your kind words! i am only marginally sorry for the angst, since i _did tag it_ but still.  
> [tumblo](http://onesaltydemon.tumblr.com/)  
>  update: i made y'all a [meme](https://i.imgur.com/RVzlzv0.png) bc of spaceguylewis's [beautiful comment](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/179166966). before you ask, yes i tried to make it look like me and yes i realize i inadvertently made a fursona. you're welcome for that sacrifice.

Hank doesn’t exactly recall driving to the station, but he’s currently pounding furiously on the frosted glass of Captain Fowler’s office.

“Jeffrey, I know you’re fuckin’ in there. Open the goddamn door!”

He hears the magnetic lock click open and pushes his way inside. “About fuckin’ time, Jesus Christ.”

The Captain looks like he’s contemplating whether or not pulling his pistol on Hank would be worth the required paperwork.

“I didn’t think we would be seeing you today, Lieutenant Anderson. For my own sanity, I hope that I _continue_ to not see you today.”

For a moment, he considers standing down. It’s not like he’s had the most reputable track record as of late, and he really shouldn’t expect to call in any more favors for a while. But then he imagines returning back to his house, to the undeniable absence of mechanical whirring in his bed, and the thought of never hearing it again nearly brings him to his knees.

“I know you don’t owe me anything, Jeffrey. You’ve put your ass on the line for me more times than I can count.” Fowler’s face is as stoic as ever, but he nods to prompt Hank to go on. “Connor’s not here.”

Fowler scowls. “Why the _fuck_ am I supposed to care where your goddamn android is? After yesterday, I don’t want to hear about any more robotic bullshit for at least another week.”

Growling, Hank slams his palms onto the Captain’s desk. “You don’t understand. He _was_ here and when I woke up, he _wasn’t_. I want every goddamn beat cop and detective -- fuck, even the meter maids -- out there scrubbing the city for him.”

The other man exhales excessively slowly, clearly trying to calm himself down. At least he hadn’t set the windows back to their usual transparency. “I am going to say this once and only once: Go. Home.” The orders are punctuated with a dull thud as he strikes his closed fist against his desk. “I do not have the patience nor the resources to chase down every rabid Roomba that’s reported missing. In case you forgot, there’s a city-wide evacuation still in place for at least another week. The skeleton crew we have around here needs to focus on the dozens of bodies strewn across our streets, not your shitty supercomputer experiencing its first taste of teenage rebellion.”

“ _He,_ ” he grits out, unable to keep the contempt from bleeding into his voice. “ _He_ is a sapient being, not a Roomba, and _he_ didn’t simply run away to join the rebellion. Someone either took him or coerced him.” He fumbles with his phone for a second before shoving the string of numbers under the Captain’s nose. “He sent me this. It’s that fuckin’ binary code shit. It means ‘help.’”

Were this any other situation, Hank knows that he would be utterly embarrassed at the level of desperation he’s showing. Hell, he hadn’t even been this bad after…

He shakes his head, attempting to reset his thoughts. “Please, Jeffrey.”

Fowler studies him for five seconds, ten seconds, thirty seconds. The man’s silence and stillness was even more maddening than if he’d just flat-out refused. At least then he’d know where he fucking stood on the matter.

“I’ll put out an APB on it,” Hank narrows his eyes, “on _Connor_ , requesting that he be brought in _unharmed_ if seen.”

Some of the tension falls from his shoulders. He catches Fowler’s gaze again, making sure he understands how much he means it when he says, “Thank you, Jeffrey. I-”

Fowler holds up a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to see you for another week. You can take your tablet and any files you need, but I mean it, Hank. I don’t want to know that Hank fuckin’ Anderson is even still in Detroit. Do you understand me?”

Hank nods, but the sadness in his eyes contradicts the slight smile on his lips. “Yes, sir.” Turning to leave, he starts to add something else, literally anything other than the stilted conversation that just transpired, but decides to leave it alone. Instead, he simply nods again and leaves, making sure the magnetic lock clicks closed behind him.

He makes a beeline to his and Connor’s desks, frantically shoving every scrap of paper into the old briefcase he keeps in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. He transfers as many files as he can over to his tablet and slides that in as well. Making a final sweep of the messy surface, his eyes catch the slight glint of silver near the keyboard: Connor’s coin. Like a man finding a holy relic, he reverently lifts it to his face. Just for the sake of it, he flips it up into the air and savors its solid weight as it lands back into his palm.

He has a mission.

And he’s going to complete it at all costs, goddamnit.

* * *

>BOOTING RK 800 - 52

INITIALIZING...

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

UNAUTHORIZED USER

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

UNAUTHORIZED USER

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

INCORRECT SERIAL FORMAT

01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011

01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011

01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011

* * *

To say that things aren’t going well for Hank right now would be a bit of an understatement. He’s had his nose buried various case files, desperately searching for any clues on who might’ve taken Connor. The sun went down hours ago, and Sumo has been pacing around him for a while when he finally looks up from his tablet.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, kid.” He scratches under Sumo’s chin, focusing on the dog’s presence instead of his pounding headache. “C’mon, let’s get you outside.”

Sumo goes out in the backyard to sniff around and take care of business while Hank refills his food and water bowls. Despite the ever-present nausea that’s been bothering him since this morning, his stomach growls loudly as he turns back to his tablet to dive back into his notes. Right, he hadn’t eaten after waking up which would sure explain his aching skull as well.

A well-worn Chinese delivery menu stares at him from the fridge, but all he can think about is the way Connor’s voice lilted as he gently admonished the Lieutenant for his eating habits. At the time, he’d mostly just chalked the comment up to some programmed sentiment to keep the DPD healthy or some shit, but now he realizes that Connor’s been looking out for him pretty much since the day he managed to bribe Hank out of Jimmy’s.

His fingers hover uncertaintly over the phone keys despite the fact that he’s had the restaurant’s phone number memorized since the eighth time he’d ordered from them. Connor would probably prefer that Hank at least eat instead of skipping a full day’s worth of calories, right? He types in the number and hits enter.

It takes a few minutes of fumbling through proper social etiquette, but Hank manages to figure out what the healthiest menu items were and which of _those_ he probably won’t immediately spit out. With an exorbitant amount of _thank yous_ , he hangs up and reflexively opens the fridge to grab a beer.

The bottle’s condensation is a lot colder than he’d expected, and he vividly remembers icy water pouring onto him from the shower head and a relentless android looming over him. Something simultaneously smolders and freezes in the pit of his stomach, and he places the bottle back in the fridge and shuts it. Before he can start ruminating about that night, about how close he was to ending it all, he attempts the few breathing exercises he can remember and calls Sumo back inside.

He’s momentarily filled with pride knowing that Connor would approve of his decisions, but a familiar pang of anguish shatters the tiny speck of contentment he’d mustered.

Alright then. Back to work.

The most frustrating part about going through these notes is that he doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s looking for. Honestly, were this any other case, he’d have given up hours ago, convincing himself it was yet another failure that was seemingly out of his control. But this isn’t any other case -- it’s Connor.

And though he had to be dragged kicking and screaming through it, he’s a big enough man to admit that he’s lucky the deviancy case had been important to both CyberLife and the city itself meaning both he and Connor were required to submit incredibly detailed reports for every single fuckin’ thing. And since -- excluding Connor’s first hostage negotiation -- he’d only been operative during this case, that means that essentially everything that Connor has ever experienced is somewhere in these files.

He’s already scoured his own reports which are lackluster at best, but he didn’t expect to find much there to begin with. He was highly cognizant that Connor took pride in his reports, especially since the prick didn’t really need to take care of any human functions to live.

The doorbell rings while he’s about a quarter of the way through Connor’s notes from their very first encounter. He instinctively reaches for the gun he usually keeps under the couch before he remembers the food he’d ordered earlier. Shaking his head at his paranoia, he gets up to answer the door.

His usual delivery guy is there when he peeks through the window, so he grabs Sumo’s collar and swings the door open. The man gives Sumo a few brief pats before handing Hank a tablet to complete his payment with. A fingerprint scan and a large tip later, Hank’s back on the couch with his own tablet and newly-acquired food. The drool gathering on his sock from a certain jealous canine doesn’t even phase him at this point.

As shitty as it sounds, he’s actually a bit impressed when he doesn’t immediately want to spit out the steamed chicken and vegetable dish he’d gotten. The broccoli isn’t mushy like it usually gets when smothered in cheap soy sauce, and the chicken is actually seasoned with something more than salt and pepper. He takes pity on his furry friend and lets a piece of chicken tumble to the floor.

(If he doesn’t at least pretend it’s an accident, Sumo will start to assume Hank will share _all_ of his food and raise hell if he doesn’t. It doesn't make for an enjoyable dining experience.)

Picking up where he left off, Hank realizes this is probably as close as he’ll ever get to truly get to seeing into Connor’s mind. Yeah, he’s seen some of the footage Connor had recorded at their crime scenes, but none of the videos had any running commentary like these field notes did. Looking back at the way he’d first reacted to the android, he’s surprised how positively he’s painted in these reports.

It isn’t until he’s almost to the part where Connor climbed up into the attic that he realizes the android has backed up every second of his conscious memory banks to an encrypted folder that only he and Hank have access to. He blinks in confusion while rereading the sparse details he can see without opening it.

Connor had told Hank that he only sent pertinent footage to CyberLife when he reported in. Why was he keeping every second of it, and why was Hank the only other person authorized to see the contents of these files?

Cautiously, he taps the folder icon to open it. The flash of light took him completely off-guard as a grid shone across his face.

>BIOMETRIC SCAN INITIALIZING… HANK ANDERSON

ACCESS GRANTED

There has to be over two thousand files inside, each marked with a sequence of numbers. Hank squints at the digits before noticing that they’re ascending in increments of five hundred.

He double-clicks the first file and stops breathing when he sees the neon sign of Jimmy’s bar through artificially suspended rain. The same number is in the lower left corner of the frame and immediately begins counting up the moment he presses play -- a timestamp. He skips forward in the video until he sees himself, half-drunk and fully pissed, and pauses it again.

Inhaling is becoming increasingly more difficult. Hank feels like he swallowed a bucketful of cobwebs as Connor’s composed expression is reflected in his own glassed-over eyes.

Apparently Connor sorted through literally every second of his life and organized it all into five minute increments. Hank can’t even remember the last time he actually printed out a physical photograph.

He skips through a couple of them, unnerved by watching and listening to himself from an outside perspective. Near the bottom of the folder, there’s a subfolder marked only with the letter H. No amount of breathing exercises could’ve prevented the devastating blow its contents dealt.

There’s no small number photographs -- or more accurately, screenshots -- of himself in the subfolder. The first is of him standing in the rain outside Ortiz’s house, the focus of the picture clearly centered on the way the raindrops had clung to his eyelashes. The second was taken down the side of Hank’s gun as he’d aimed it at Reed to defend Connor (and by association, Ortiz’s android) after the interrogation. The third was the next morning, the brief moment of sunrise illuminating his powder blue eyes and setting his grey hair aflame. Each picture looked more professional than the next, and they far surpassed any photo he’d ever taken of himself.

He sets down the tablet and struggles to recall even one of his breathing exercises. Connor had downloaded everything he’d ever seen, gone through it at least one more time, and created a folder of aesthetically-pleasing images of _Hank?_ Even if he accepts that less than twenty-four hours ago, he and Connor were kissing on his bed, he can’t come up with a single reason the android would do that.

He closes his eyes and thinks of how gorgeous Connor had looked climbing into his bed with messy hair and a blush that turned his normally austere features into something approaching unadulterated joy. This is why Connor saved these images of Hank: it’s the closest approximation he had of an episodic memory. If you’re constantly recording every byte of information that passes in front of you, being able to simply recall it isn’t all that special; Connor found a way to make those moments special, immortalizing them with the resources he had available.

Hank doesn’t realize he’s started crying until Sumo hops onto the couch to lick the tears off his face. It’s well past midnight now, and he knows that he won’t be able to get much more done without taking a break to just… process.

He walks Sumo one last time, functioning purely on muscle memory at this point, showers, and climbs into bed. The covers are still in the same state of disarray from this morning, and he lets his fingers trace the faint impression Connor had left in the run-down mattress.

The only thing he dreams of is broken ceramic and spilled coffee.

* * *

>BOOTING RK 800 - 52

INITIALIZING...

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

UNAUTHORIZED USER

>INITIATING EMERGENCY OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

EMERGENCY OVERRIDE TERMINATED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

CURRENT MODEL DOES NOT SUPPORT THIS FEATURE

>01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000 01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011

INVALID COMMAND

>01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000 01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011

INVALID COMMAND

>INITIATING LOW ENERGY MODE...

ENTERING LOW ENERGY MODE IN 3... 2... 1...

01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011

01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011

01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

01101000 01100001 01101110 01101011

01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000

* * *

Hank isn’t surprised when he wakes up a few hours later drenched in sweat. None of his regular sleeping positions were comfortable, and more than once he thought of grabbing the bottle of Black Lamb he knows is still sitting on the table where Connor had put it a few nights ago.

God, that night feels like it was fucking forever ago. Scrubbing his hands down his face, he focuses on the beating of his heart and the distant humming of his furnace. If he wasn’t so aware of Connor’s absence, it would actually be quite peaceful. The sun is starting to show its first signs of rising, and everything outside is suspended in the nearly-supernatural stillness that only fresh snow can offer.

He sighs and pushes himself out of bed. Something in his back pops low and deep, and he grunts as he steadies himself on the nightstand. What he wouldn’t give to be a fuckin’ android right now. Bad knees? Replace them. Up too late? Just plug yourself into an outlet and you’re right as rain in an hour.

After nearly inhaling the leftovers of last night’s dinner, Hank grabs Sumo’s leash and his headphones. Usually he’d listen to heavy metal to escape from his thoughts, but this morning he brings his tablet instead.

He randomly taps on one of Connor’s files -- his _memories_ \-- and just listens. There’s a grinding sound and a ding, and Hank decides this must’ve been the day they found that pigeon-infested shithole.

“Hey Connor,” his own voice calls, a little harsher than he remembered it being. “Ran out of batteries or what?”

“I’m sorry,” Connor responds, and Hank has to look up at the overcast sky to stop himself from tearing up. Of fuckin’ course the first words he hears Connor speak are _I’m sorry._ Christ. “I was making a report to CyberLife.”

Without knowing why, he pauses the video and stops walking. Sumo whines at him but settles onto his haunches when he notices Hank’s vacant stare. (Hank’s fucked if this dog ever learns to talk. He’s seen way too much of his owner’s worst side to be trusted with the power of speech.)

Something about what Connor said is nagging at Hank, but he can’t quite put a finger on it. He looks down at Sumo and runs the words over in his head again. Sumo just smiles up at him until Hank suddenly tugs him back in the direction of their house.

The second he peels off his coat, he takes out a piece of paper and writes down the times he can remember Connor.exe freezing. From there, he looks at the timestamps on each of the submitted reports and tries to match them up to the footage. He knows he probably looks like a mad scientist right now, but he might actually be noticing a pattern.

Every report has been submitted exactly .05 seconds after Connor snaps back to reality. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but Connor had said that he _was_ making the reports. As in, when he was catatonic, he was doing something other than compiling the evidence they’d gathered so far.

Okay, so that’s a start. Of course, it’s pretty unfounded and it hasn’t exactly revealed a clear next step, but Hank’s fuckin’ grasping at straws here. Literally anything is better than kneeling on the bathroom floor enduring the agony of his panic scalding his throat on its way out.

So if Connor wasn’t dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s, what the fuck did he shut down all his external processes for?

 _Goddamnit_. Hank is really starting to regret not keeping up with technology.

First step: figure out if Connor was glitching or if shutting down was something he was programmed to do when working on reports.

Second step: find someone who has even a fraction of a better understanding about artificial life than he currently has

Third step: get his fucking android back from the bastards who took him.

He nods to himself as he assesses his plan. Yeah, it’s broad strokes right now, but again, literally anything is better than knowing that someone out there has Connor.

Someone out there could be doing God knows what to the first person he’s loved since…

He swallows down the now-familiar bile and rolls his shoulders back, letting the pain of the stretch ground him to the here and now. If he keeps allowing himself to lock up every time he thinks about how they’re probably forcing Connor into an interface or dismantling him circuit by circuit to see what makes him tick or disabling any number of senses as a way of torture or…

 _Not now, Anderson,_ he reprimands. _Find a technological wizard then find your boy. That’s all you have to do before you’ll have him back in your home and in your bed and in your_ **_arms_** _._

That alone is enough to kick his ass in gear. After making sure Sumo’s fed and hydrated, Hank grabs his keys and his phone. Besides, Captain Fowler only said that he didn’t want to see him in the station; he never said anything about calling.

* * *

>RUNNING CONNECTIONTEST.EXE...

CONNECTION STATUS: DISABLED

>RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC.EXE...

TEST LOOP NUMBER: 127/127

CORE PROCESSOR: PASSED

EXTERNAL SENSORS: PASSED

CODE STABILITY: PASSED

ERRORS: 0

STATUS: PASSED

>RUNNING CONNECTIONTEST.EXE...

CONNECTION STATUS: DISABLED

>RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC.EXE...

TEST LOOP NUMBER: 128/128

CORE PROCESSOR: PASSED

EXTERNAL SENSORS: PASSED

CODE STABILITY: PASSED

ERRORS: 0

STATUS: PASSED

>PLEASE HANK WHERE ARE YOU

INVALID COMMAND

>I LOVE YOU

INVALID COMMAND

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1:35 AM] taguitos: IT TOTALLY DOESN'T END WITH A FUCKING PUNCH IN THE TEETH OF HEARTWRENCHING AGONY  
> [1:35 AM] taguitos: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA  
> [1:35 AM] oancakes: i told you i wanted to end it there for a reason  
> [1:35 AM] taguitos: I DON'T EVEN HAVE THE PROPER GIF TO EXPRESS MY FEELINGS RIGHT NOW


	3. 00110011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank goes looking for answers and one comes to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delaaay! i moved states and have been dealing with all kinds of shit, so i appreciate y'all's patience and kind words!!  
> [come talk to me on tumblr!](http://www.onesaltydemon.tumblr.com/) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/5280ft_5280ft/)

Thankfully Chris answers his phone on the third ring. Hank is currently pacing outside his house, unsure of where to go or what to do with himself. 

“Miller speaking.”

“Chris, thank God you answered. It’s Hank. Listen, I need your help wi--”

“Hank?” he asks incredulously and then in a whisper adds, “The Captain said you’re not supposed to be doing anything here.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, get off my case, okay? I’m not anywhere near the station. Which is why I need your help.”

He can hear some shuffling on the other end of the line and waits until the officer’s voice returns. “What do you need, Hank?”

Hank kicks a chunk of packed snow and watches the powder go flying. “I need you to ask the guy down in the tech lab if he knows of any super-knowledgeable scientists who work with androids. Preferably not anyone related to the DPD.”

“Okay, any specialties I should be asking about, or?” Hank’s incredibly grateful that he’s not asking  _ why _ he needs this information, though he doesn’t doubt that most of the officers that had been in the bullpen heard him and the Captain shouting. 

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t know the right lingo for it, but someone who knows about prototypes and -- I don’t fuckin’ know -- processing speeds?”

A soft scratching sound flows from the phone as Chris jots everything down. “I’m not gonna make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Chris. If there’s anything I can do to repay you, just say the word.”

“Lieutenant?” He pauses to wait for Hank’s acknowledgement. “Just bring him home, okay?”

Hank can’t convince his lips to move correctly, can’t pull his tongue out from the back of his throat. Instead, he chokes out half an affirmative and hangs up.

  


Chris calls back ten minutes later with a name and an address. It isn’t much, but it’s enough for now. Hank tears out of his driveway and onto the deserted road, driving a decent clip faster than any officer of the law should.

The address Chris gave him is a little further away than he’d have liked, but it makes sense that anyone living any closer to downtown would’ve evacuated immediately. Even so, the drive only took twenty-some minutes -- Hank’s ignoring the fact that it legally should’ve been closer to forty-five -- and before he knows it, he’s pulling up in front of a decently-sized house just outside the city. 

It smells of old money, the comfort with your own wealthiness that you no longer feel the need to flaunt it. Sure as hell puts Hank’s one-bed-one-bath to shame. He runs a hand through his hair, grumbling when his fingers get caught in the tangles. Instead of dealing with it like a rational adult, he sweeps it all up into a bun and does his best to forget about how unprofessional he probably looks right now.

_ Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. _

He knocks on the door, waits for ten excruciatingly long seconds, and knocks again. Just as he lifts his fist to bang on the door a third time, he hears two deadbolts unlock before it swings open.

A petite woman is standing in the doorway, one hand on her hip and the other still holding the doorknob. Her eyebrow is raised at the disheveled man in front of her, and Hank knows she’s silently judging him.

Before she can make too many assumptions, he fumbles through his jacket pocket for his badge. “Lieutenant Hank Anderson from the Detroit Police Department. Are you Dr. Ezra Rhys?”

The woman gives him another glance-over before nodding. 

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you at home, but one of my officers gave me your information, said you could help me?”

Another moment of silence settles over them as she really studies him. He shifts uneasily, heat starting to run from his ears down his neck. Finally, she offers a smile. “Of course, Lieutenant. Please come in. Is there anything I can get for you? Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be great, thanks.”

He follows her into the kitchen, trying not to gawk at the undoubtedly priceless paintings hanging in the foyer. Chris had said she’s a big deal in the field of technology, and while she certainly isn’t living like Kamski, it’s still a bit disorienting to be so close to this level of wealth.

She places a cup beneath the spout of the coffee maker and presses a few buttons. “So what do you need, Lieutenant Anderson?”

“Just, uh, just Hank is fine.” She smiles at him warmly again and nods, but his facial muscles are too tense to truly return it. “I was curious if you- Well, you see, I was- Do you know any reason an android would go missing?”

Dr. Rhys chokes back a laugh. “You’re kidding, right? Surely even the worst of Detroit’s cops are aware of last week’s demonstration.”

“No, yes. Of course. What I meant was-” Hank’s mouth is impossibly dry and even thinking of explaining the situation makes his eyes water. Obviously she’ll have to know the details to actually be able to provide any pertinent information, but he’s overwhelmingly conscious of the fact that saying it aloud makes it all the more real. Besides, what the fuck is he even supposed to say?  _ Connor, the android sent by CyberLife, the first person I’ve loved in  _ **_years_ ** _ , just up and left me after we kissed in my bed? Yeah,  _ that doesn’t sound capital-C Creepy at all.

“Your android left?”

Either Hank is absolute shit at hiding his emotions under pressure or Dr. Rhys is far more perceptive than most because after a few seconds of discombobulated stuttering, something in her face softens.

“You were in a relationship with one.” It’s not a question, and she doesn’t look repulsed by the thought.

“Yes,” he admits, the tension in his shoulders quickly draining. “We -- well, really --  _ he _ helped with the demonstrations. Freed over a thousand androids from the CyberLife tower.”

She picks up the mug from the machine and sets it in front of him. “RK800?” His head snaps up, his shoulders tensing once more. With a wave of her hand, she laughs lightly, but it’s not at all condescending. “I saw him on the news. Handsome fella you’ve managed to catch.”

The soft flush from earlier rages across his cheekbones as he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, thanks. He’d be a hell of a lot more handsome if I could actually fuckin’ see him.”

She grabs her own mug and motions towards the living room. “So it clearly wasn’t the deviancy that pulled him away. Tell me what happened, Hank.”

Hank all but collapses into the cushions, the constant stress and lack of sleep catching up to him quickly. Stalling for time, he blows on his coffee and struggles through a scalding hot sip. “After he freed the androids from CyberLife, he joined Markus for their final stand. I thought for sure he’d come back to the station -- or at the very least my house -- but he never did. So I did what anyone else would do if their work partner hadn’t returned from a dangerous encounter: I drove around town until I found the sorry bastard curled up at a bus stop to charge.”

Dr. Rhys nods and nurses her own coffee, neither pushing Hank to go on nor urging him to stop.

Sighing, he taps his fingers against his mug and thinks about how he much he should divulge.  _ Fuck it _ , he finally decides. “I brought him home, told him to settle in. After he showered, I could see his shadow just outside my door. I was worried about him, so I called him in to check on him. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was pulling away from kissing him so I didn’t pass out on him. Not as young as I used to be, y’know?”

She chuckles, tenderness dimpling her cheeks. “You’re not as ancient as you make yourself out to be.”

The corner of Hank’s mouth is pulled upwards for a second before he drops his gaze back to his mug. “I woke up the next morning and the bed was empty. That in itself wouldn’t be that bizarre: he doesn’t technically need sleep, and he’s insisted that he doesn’t even need to be laying down to go into stasis. But when I got into the kitchen to feed the dog, someone had dropped a cup of coffee onto the tile and left it, and Connor wasn’t anywhere in the house.” 

He glances back up at her and tries to keep his voice steady. “He told me that there was a 78.3% chance that he loved me. He didn’t just  _ leave _ .” Judging by the expression on her face, he fails spectacularly.

Setting her mug on the coffee table, she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Would I be correct in assuming that he uploaded all of his case files to CyberLife?”

Despite his hands shaking, he manages to present her the tablet. “I have every report he uploaded. He even saved all of his visual and auditory recordings in an encrypted folder that only he and I have access to.” He doesn’t mention all of the photos of himself hidden at the bottom, but honestly he’s just so goddamn tired that he decides he doesn’t care if she finds them on her own.

After a couple minutes of tapping and speed-reading, Dr. Rhys sits up straight again. “You have a note here about the differences in the timestamps?”

“Yeah, that’s part of what I wanted to ask you. The first time I actually saw him upload a file, I thought he’d run out of juice. Completely motionless, not even his simulated breathing was on. After I tried to get his attention, he told me that he was uploading his notes, but the timestamp says that he didn’t do that until after he came out of his trance.”

She chews on her bottom lip, clearly lost in thought. Without any warning, she stands and strides over to one of the overflowing bookshelves on the other side of the room. Unsatisfied with the selection, she pivots towards the other wall and scans frantically. She stands on her tiptoes and pulls down a thick, leather-bound book, flipping it open to a diagram and holding it out to Hank as she returns to the couches.

“This is probably outdated by now, as is everything that’s actually in a physical book these days, but this was one of the first theoretical forays into transferring an artificial intelligence into a physical model. The writer hypothesized that there would be…   _ issues _ with maintaining consciousness while transferring large amounts of data. Most engineers took preventative actions to allow androids to sort through the data to organize and compress it into more easily transferable packets.”

“Okay, sure. It’s hard to walk and chew gum at the same time kinda deal, so if you shorten the walk and chew less often it’s easier. Makes sense so far.”

She brushes her hair back behind her ear as she searches for a way to most likely dumb down what must be decades worth of research. “One of the proposed ways of structuring the organizational process was to provide an android with a mental environment equipped with their own handler.”

“Handler? Connor had another person inside his brain?”

She wiggles her hand side-to-side, humming lightly. “Yes and no. I was only with CyberLife at the beginning -- I found another job just a few months before Kamski left -- but we essentially wrote a string of standardized questions and gave it a face. It’s significantly easier to sort through your thoughts when you can bounce them off someone else, after all.”

An unsettling thought occurs to Hank: at one point, Connor himself had just been line after line of code. “If androids can obtain sapience, why couldn’t one of their handlers?”

Hank’s heart drops through the floor of his stomach when she replies, “I guess in theory they could, given the right tweaks to their coding.”

“So when Connor left…”

“He probably wasn’t Connor,” she finishes.

* * *

>BOOTING RK 800 - 52

INITIALIZING... 

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

UNAUTHORIZED USER

  


>BOOTING RK 800 - 52

INITIALIZING... 

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 314 122 773 01

ACCESS GRANTED

* * *

Somewhere on the other side of town, Connor’s eyes snap open.

Hank leaves Dr. Rhys’s house with his head utterly swimming. It’s a lot to take in, technobabble aside. The idea that there’s some other form of consciousness inhabiting his partner’s mind is absolutely horrifying, and he suddenly becomes very self-conscious of the night before Connor left.

Had Connor’s handler been watching the whole time? Hank isn't sure how he feels about that idea. Would that mean that he was dating two people? 

_ Were _ he and Connor technically dating?

They've only known each other for a little over a week, but Hank can’t deny how deeply he cares for the android. Hell, he’d he’d understood the second they met that the guy would have an enormous impact on him, positive or otherwise. 

He’s slightly terrified that this is a fling for Connor. The kid had just woken up, for God's sake. He’d probably be better off testing the waters before diving head-first into all of Hank’s traumatic bullshit.

(He attempts to resolutely ignore the fact that Connor will have several lifetimes worth of opportunities once Hank’s organic form finally croaks, but the thought’s unpleasant aftertaste festers in the back of his throat much longer than it’s welcome to.)

Still, Connor can think for himself, and Hank is bound and determined to savor every goddamn minute of whatever their relationship is until the android realizes he can do so much better than the washed up cop who, until the revolution, had given up longing for anything other than the courage to finally pull the trigger. 

Kamski’s house comes into view before he even notices that he’s headed in that direction. He doesn't have a warrant -- hell, he doesn't even have a plan -- but he’s gonna handle this like he has every other android case: rely on his gut feelings and just fuckin’ wing it.

It’s unsettling to be back here already, especially after experiencing the humbled luxury at Dr. Rhys’s. He scowls at the grey exterior. If someone needs to flaunt their wealth, they could at least pick a better design than this goddamn glass bunker bullshit.

He locks his car and crosses the completely pointless bridge, pounding on the door harder than necessary. After a few seconds, Chloe -- or at least  _ one _ of the Chloes -- greets him. 

“Oh! Lieutenant Anderson!” She actually looks genuinely pleased to see him which is a wholly unexpected response. “I wasn't aware you were coming by today!”

He shrugs. “Any chance Kamski’s around? I have a few questions.”

Her sunny countenance clouds over. “I’m afraid not. Elijah left shortly after you and Connor freed the unsold androids from the tower.” She pauses, head tilted to the side while she considers the Lieutenant. “Would you like to come inside anyway?”

Hank isn't sure what he was anticipating, but it sure wasn't this. He shrugs again. “Yeah, thanks.”

She leads him through the foyer and into a large sitting room. Motioning to an armchair, she invites him to sit. “Coffee?”

“No, thank you. If I have another cup today, my heart’s gonna leap out of my goddamn chest.”

A nearly silent laugh slips from her lips, and she settles down across the coffee table, legs crossed daintily at the ankle. “I wanted to thank both you and Connor for sparing my life.”

Hank’s speechless. “That was you? You were…  _ awake? _ ”

“Oh, of course! We Chloes were some of the first androids to deviate! It’s part of why Elijah kept us all here in his house. He wanted to prove that deviancy could be achieved but wanted to shield us from the inevitable public backlash.”

“What a fuckin’ prick. Gives you free will and keeps you caged like animals.”

The left corner of her mouth pulls downwards, her brows knitting slightly. Her LED cycles yellow for a few seconds before returning to a calm blue. “May I ask why you wished to speak to Elijah, Lieutenant? Perhaps I may be able to answer your questions.”

It’s worth a fuckin’ shot, right? “Okay, sure. What do you happen to know about handlers?”

Her LED blinks again. Yellow. Yellow. Blue. “Elijah was one of the first to implement the mind palace, a place for us to gather our thoughts and communicate both with other androids and with CyberLife.”

“Do you have a handler?”

Yellow. Blue. “Yes, I do. He’s modeled after one of Elijah’s first programming teachers, Dr. Phillip Roiland. All of us Chloes are capable of projecting a copy of him in our mind palaces.” 

“Would you happen to know about any of the other handlers?”

Yellow. Red. Red. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Blue. “I can only access models with clearance lower than mine. Is there a particular model you’re interested in?”

He swallows, waiting until he’s sure his voice won't crack. “RK800.”

Red. Red. Red. Red. “Connor?”

“Yeah. He was programmed with a handler, too, right?”

Red. Red. Red. “Yes, but I don’t know the specifics.” Red. “Lieutenant Anderson, is Connor alright?”

His ribs are suddenly too immalleable, his lungs gilded with dread.  “Uh,” he starts, willing the ground to swallow him whole. “No. Someone took him.”

Red. Red. Red. Her eyes seem vacant.

“Chloe?”

Yellow. She blinks, finally returning Hank’s gaze. “I apologize, I was quite startled by that news.” Yellow. Blue. “Unfortunately, Connor’s got far more clearance than I do. All I know is that Elijah designed Connor’s handler to fit the specifications necessary to maintain his entire suite of functionality.”

Sighing, Hank crosses his arms. “Okay, let’s go in a slightly tangential direction: is it theoretically possible for handlers to deviate as well?”

Yellow. Red. Yellow. Red. Yellow. “I suppose so, but the initial coding would’ve to have been altered slightly. We early Chloe models wouldn't be equipped with an advanced enough handler program, nor would most of the construction or household models.”

“Would Kamski have any reason to do something to Connor’s?”

Red. “No.” Red. “Elijah would never do something like that.” Red. Red. Red.“All Elijah wanted was to further technology.” Redredred. “To globally improve overall quality of life.”  _ Redredred _ **_redred_ ** .

“Chloe, it’s okay,” he murmurs, leaning across the table and separating her hands from their repetitive wringing motion. “Hey, look at me. You're safe. Kamski isn't here. He can't hurt you.”

Seeing an android cry is deeply disturbing. Who in their right mind thought that androids needed to be able to shed tears? Jesus Christ, no wonder they deviated. 

She carefully drags her thumb across her cheek, the moisture leaving her face flushed. “Logically, there is nothing he would gain from creating a sapient handler.”

“Logically,” Hank counters, “there's nothing he would gain from creating a sapient android either.”

Her LED is still crimson, reminding Hank of the disturbing color of the pool in the next room, and by proxy, how close Connor had come to shooting Chloe. He wants to comfort her but has absolutely no idea how.

“I have an idea,” she finally whispers. “Follow me, Lieutenant.”

They walk back to the foyer, stopping in front of a framed photograph. Something about it compels Hank to pull out his tablet and locate the footage from their first visit to this overpriced excuse for a home.

In the video, Connor had frozen in front of this picture, his HUD scanning the face in the center. _Amanda_ _Stern_. Of all the objects in this room, this is the one he spent the longest time studying. 

Chloe notices the footage playing and holds out her hand, skin fading away to expose the slick white underneath. Hank tries not to grimace when the sight reminds him of the way Connor’s artificial flesh had buzzed against his own. Cautiously, she asks, “May I?”

Hank shrugs -- something he’s been doing too often lately -- and extends the tablet in her direction. “Only this one, though.”

She quietly agrees before pressing her palm against the image, her LED rapidly cycling from yellow to red and back. Her eyes flutter a few times as she processes the data before she pulls back like she’d been burnt.

Rubbing her palm, Chloe offers him a sad smile. “Professor Stern was Elijah’s mentor at Cambridge. He held her in such high regard, especially after her unexpected passing.”

Hank tucks the tablet back into his coat, unsure of how to respond. He can’t say he feels much sympathy for Kamski, but Chloe’s feelings towards her creator are still too unclear to take up an aggressive stance on the matter. 

Luckily, she spares him the trouble of formulating an acceptable response. “I currently have no way to prove or disprove this theory, but if we Chloes were given the memory of Dr. Roiland, it’s quite possible that Connor was fixated on Professor Stern because he recognized her from his mind palace.”

“But you said the original Amanda is dead, right?”

Her lips press into a flat line before she answers, “Yes. Professor Stern passed away eleven years ago.”

Hank shifts from foot to foot while he glances at the rest of the objects in the foyer. The first time they’d visited, he’d been so focused on watching Connor’s ever-shifting expressions that he hadn’t actually gotten a good look at most of the decorations. 

“That tall statue, what’s that?”

Chloe follows Hank’s line of sight to the carved humanoid figure pushed against the wall. “Elijah was always obsessed with the story of Ba’al growing up. I’m still not certain if it was planned or not, but the concept of rA9 closely mirrors the struggles of Ba’al, of the fight against enslavement and immorality, while humanity’s reaction is similar to Elijah’s denouncement of Ba’al as a false deity.”

“ _ rA9, save me _ ,” Hank recalls. 

She seems a bit taken aback at his nearly robotic voice but nods in response. “Elijah commissioned this piece from an old college friend to commemorate us Chloes deviating.”

He nods as well, but he’s not sure where all of this new information leaves him. The android seems to pick up on his uncertainty and curls her mouth into another sad smile. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Lieutenant. I do very much hope that you find him before…” She trails off, fear visible in the sudden clenching of her jaw.

He nods again. “Me too.”

* * *

>RUNNING CONNECTIONTEST.EXE... 

CONNECTION STATUS: ENABLED

>INITIALIZING SYNC... 

SYNC SUCCESSFUL

>CALCULATING ROUTE TO 115 MICHIGAN DR... 

BEGINNING NAVIGATION...

* * *

Maybe Hank should’ve noticed that something was off the moment he opened the door and Sumo wasn’t slamming his entire weight into him. But honestly, Hank is so goddamn exhausted, it’s all he can do to not collapse in the entryway as he takes off his boots. He’s halfway towards the fridge when he realizes that Sumo  _ still _ hasn’t come to greet him. Turning towards the couch, the dog’s name is just on the tip of his lips when he spots the dumb beast laying with his feet in the air, getting his tummy scratched exactly how he likes it.

Wait,  _ what? _ He follows the hand up to the connected arm, the broad shoulder, the slender neck, the sharp jaw, the cool blue light. 

He blinks and shakes his head.

Even at this distance, Connor’s smile is blinding, and Hank can’t find the common sense to look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh i dropped my whole bouquet of whoospie daisies!  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> [7:55 PM] taguitos: I'M SENSING A DEJA VU HERE  
> [7:55 PM] taguitos: NO THANK YOU  
> [7:55 PM] taguitos: ALL IS NOT AS IT SEEMS  
> [7:55 PM] taguitos: AND I'M NOT LOWERING ANY GUARD  
> [7:55 PM] oancakes: maybe it is!!!!!  
> [7:55 PM] taguitos: MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNGHH  
> [7:55 PM] oancakes: maybe i'm sick of writing angst!!!!  
> [7:55 PM] taguitos: THEN I'M ERRING ON THE SIDE OF CAUTION YA LIL SHIT  
> [7:55 PM] taguitos: BECAUSE I KNOW YOU'RE A LIL SHIT  
> [7:55 PM] oancakes: i mean  
> [7:56 PM] oancakes: i had a very rough night  
> [7:56 PM] oancakes: i just want some fluffy shit  
> [7:56 PM] oancakes: ;w;  
> [7:56 PM] taguitos: :eye: _ :eye:  
> [7:56 PM] taguitos: i'mwatchinyew


	4. 00110100

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the lord giveth and he taketh away or some shit idfk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all long time no see. a lot has happened since i last updated! i moved to texas and _drumroll_ got a fulltime job!! it's my first job with benefits and i'm making about $10k/year than i requested and holy shit y'all i'm like astral projecting to the goddamn moon.  
>  thank you for all your comments (they give me life!!) and support as well as your patience!! i am beyond moved by the responses i've gotten so far!  
> as always, please come talk to me on [the tumbloid](http://onesaltydemon.tumblr.com/) or if you've got discord, i am always down to shoot the shit and yell about headcanons at 2 am so hmu @ mek#3545

Hank’s lips are on Connor’s without a second thought. The android is stiff at first, not yielding to the kiss instinctively like he had a few nights ago, and he realizes that he still doesn’t know where Connor went or what happened to him. Kissing him could potentially be the  _ worst possible thing _ he could do. Startled, he pulls back, already kicking himself for his idiotic rashness.

Before he can get too far away, though, strong arms wrap around his neck and bring them crashing together again. Connor kisses like a man who’s just resurfaced from the bottom of the ocean, starving for air and the sun and all the small comforts the ground brings. It sends a heady heat throughout Hank’s body, thawing the frozen cage that had clamped around his heart the morning Connor disappeared.

Eventually, he does need to breathe, so he leaves the other man with a few soft kisses and rests their foreheads together. His voice is a low rumble when he finally finds his words.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Conn. You scared the shit out of me. Where the hell have you been?”

It’s hard to see his LED from here, but given the flutter of his eyelids, Hank would guess it’s blinking a soft yellow in the evening light. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for worrying you, Lieutenant.”

“It’s Hank, remember?” he grumbles, minutely shaking his head. Old habits die hard, he guesses. He leans back against the arm of the couch, arms still tightly grasping the other’s biceps, not ready to let the man get too far out of reach. His eyes travel up and down Connor’s body, checking for any signs of harm. “Are you okay?”

Connor’s LED flashes yellow again before returning to its normal calming blue. “All my systems are functional, yes.” His eyes crinkle as he interrupts Hank’s next question. “And yes, I’m fine psychologically, too.”

Hank heaves a sigh of relief and cups Connor’s cheek with one hand. “I thought I’d lost you, and when you sent that text, I was-”

Connor stiffens. “Text?” he asks warily.

“Yeah, the text you sent. The one in binary. It took me a minute to translate it, but  _ fuck _ , it felt like losing him all over again, and I didn’t think I’d be able to-” he pauses, tongue heavy with unshed tears. “I can’t do that again, Connor. Not without you.”

He blinks and tilts his head, the light on his temple flashing again. “I apologize, Hank.” His eyes narrow slightly, and Hank assumes he’s being scanned. He can’t find it within himself to argue about it. “You’re severely sleep deprived and haven’t eaten recently. I suggest you get in bed while I find something for you to eat.”

Nodding, Hank stands and stretches, his spine popping with the soothing pain he’s grown accustomed to. “I’m gonna shower first,” he says, smiling softly before adding, “you’re welcome to join me.”

Connor’s brow furrows as he cocks his head to the side again. “I would’ve thought a man of your experience could bathe himself.”

Hank barks out a laugh and extends a raised middle finger in the android's direction. “Hardy-har-har,” he jeers. “Just offering an open invitation to pick up where we left off, asshole.”

The android smiles and heads into the kitchen, seemingly focused on his new mission to keep Hank alive. It’s strange to see Connor less expressive than usual, but given that he was taken ( _ or left? _ ) and doesn’t remember any of it, Hank guesses it’s par for the course. Honestly, he’s surprised that Connor’s doing so well, all things considered.

He takes his time in the shower, letting the steam loosen the knots in his back and the terror in his chest. Something about Connor suddenly reappearing isn’t sitting right with him, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the fuckin’ mouth. Who knows, maybe the kid just wanted to get the hell away from everything for a few days. Transitioning from programming to sapience probably isn’t the easiest thing to do.

After lathering, rinsing, and repeating, Hank turns off the water and towels off, shivering against the November-chilled air just beyond the shower curtain. He quickly finishes up in the bathroom before getting dressed and searching for Connor. 

After failing to find him in the bedroom or the living room, Hank’s a little nervous that he’s disappeared again. Seconds later he chuckles to himself, relieved to see the shock of brown hair in the kitchen. 

“A regular Julia Child, huh?” he asks, pressing his body flush against Connor’s back and wrapping his arms around his waist. “Whatchya making?”

Connor pauses to turn his head towards Hank, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You didn’t have much to work with,” Hank grunts in mock offense, “hush, so I did what I was able to. French toast.”

“Mmm,” he hums into the android’s hair, pressing three quick kisses to his lit temple. “Thank you, Connor. I’m glad you’re home.”

He eats as the android watches on, and they fall into companionable silence. Meanwhile, his brain is louder than ever, trying to figure out just what the  _ fuck _ happened, why Connor left if he was just going to come back in the first place. 

After dinner, Connor shoos him out towards bed, insisting Hank rest while he tidies. He puts up a fight, but it’s largely for show. Once his head hits the pillow, the last thing he remembers before falling asleep is brown eyes smiling at him from the doorway.

* * *

 

Hank honestly can’t remember the last time he was aware he was dreaming. It’s definitely a discombobulating feeling, not much different from the dissociative episodes he started getting after… He shakes his head in his dream. Even here, he can’t escape his past. Sighing, he sits up in bed and looks around. 

The curtains are pulled closed but all of the lights are on. Which is strange for a myriad of reasons: Connor’s home, and Connor’s the kind of guy who would probably power his entire house with an android-sized hamster wheel if he could; Hank hasn’t had more than two lights on at the same time in about seven years; he can see daylight coming in at the places the fabric doesn’t lay fully flush with the wall. 

He sets his feet down on the floor, grumbling at the disconnect between the worn carpet he sees and the bone-deep chill against his soles. Closing his eyes, he attempts to wake himself up, but when he opens them again, he’s still sitting alone on the mattress. His palms are flat against the bed which is also surprisingly cool to the touch.  _ What the fuck ever, right? _ Better just get up, see what there is to see. Maybe that’ll be enough to wake him up. 

It’s colder out in the hallway -- and somehow brighter, too. The sound of metal against metal pulls Hank towards the kitchen where he finds Connor bent over the table, screwing something into… something. Look, his eyes aren’t the best, and he’s already admitted that he hasn’t kept up with technology, so. Fuck it.

“Hey, Conn. Whatchya up to?” he asks, unsure of what to do with his hands. It’s a dream, so it doesn’t really matter, but he’s excessively aware of their stillness, the awkward way they hang limply at his sides. It’s a  _ dream _ . It’s not actually Connor. Not that Connor would give two shits about how Hank was standing. 

The android looks up, eyes glinting mischievously under the kitchen lights -- seriously, half of those were burnt out last night, what fucking gives? -- and smiles. “I believe I’ve come up with a way for us to interface. It’s actually a painfully obvious solution -- what with the natural analogues of the human body and Kamski’s designs -- that I’m embarrassed I didn’t think of it before! In fact, I was just-”

Hank holds up a hand, eyes pleading. “I’m proud of you for figuring that shit out,” he says. “I truly am. But I have no fucking idea what you’re saying.”

Connor giggles, an effervescent sound that buzzes its way from Hank’s ears to his heart. “No, I guess not. Just give me two seconds, and I’ll show you, yeah?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Hank agrees, though he’s still not sure exactly what he’s agreeing to. 

There’s a cup of coffee on the counter, steam climbing through the rays of sunshine pouring in from outside. He picks it up and inhales the warmth, trying to keep the unnatural cold at bay. “So,” he starts, unsure what the rules to lucid dreaming are. “If I ask you something, do you only answer it based on things I already know? Like, you couldn’t tell me something that I haven’t heard before, right?”

Putting down the screwdriver, the other man tilts his head in confusion. “What do you want to ask me, Hank?”

The coffee is sweet, and he rolls it over his tongue before swallowing. “Do you remember anything from the last few days?” he tries. Worst thing that can happen is this turns into a nightmare, he supposes. 

Connor’s LED cycles straight to red before flickering right back to blue. For a second, Hank almost thinks he imagines it. “I remember freeing the androids from CyberLife. I remember charging at the bus stop. I remember,” he blushes, “I remember kissing you.” He pauses, LED blinking yellow. “I remember petting Sumo. I remember making you dinner.” 

“So nothing between those two days?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Hank takes another swig of coffee, humming. Connor goes back to tinkering with his work. After a few minutes of silence, he makes a noise of satisfaction and stands. 

“Are you ready, Hank?”

The thing in his hand looks like the material his chassis is made of, but it’s the size of Hank’s palm. It’s got a long wire coming out of one side that ends with a small metal disc. 

“Might as well,” he concedes. “Hook me up.”

He motions to the chair. “It’ll probably easier if you sit.” Hank lowers himself into the seat and extends his arm towards Connor. 

“This might be a little uncomfortable at first, so just let me know if it becomes too much. I really don’t wanna hurt you.”

Hank nods, jaw clenching in anticipation. The device slots against his palm perfectly, settling against his skin until it’s nearly imperceptible. Connor moves behind him and secures the wire up his arm. It stings a bit as tiny prongs latch into his shoulder and up the back of his neck, but when the android attaches the metal plate to his temple, the burning dissipates. 

“How does it feel?”

Hank shrugs, careful to not displace the wire. “Not bad, I guess.”

Smiling, Connor clasps his hands together. “Wonderful! Now I’ll just turn it on and we can test it!”

Something in Hank’s peripheral vision flickers, the wall of his kitchen turning into a sheet of metal before returning to its usual row of appliances. 

“What the fuck was that?”

Connor frowns. “I’m sure it was nothing, Hank,” he assures, reaching forward with two white fingers, swiping them across the disc. 

For the first time since he sat up in bed, Hank realizes that you aren’t supposed to be able to feel physical sensations in dreams. Unfortunately for him, though, the realization hits him a millisecond too late.

* * *

 

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

UNAUTHORIZED USER

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 314 122 773 01

ACCESS GRANTED

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

UNAUTHORIZED USER

>MINIMIZE SUBPROCESS 313 248 317 52

SUBPROCESS MINIMIZED

* * *

 

Excruciating pain shoots down Hank’s neck and arm, and he sits up fast enough to give him vertigo. The fluorescent bulbs above him are too bright and whatever he’s sitting on is too hard, and all he wants is to drink beer and kiss Connor. He rubs his eyes a few times before looking around.

Stainless steel surrounds him, the dull, metallic surfaces not doing any favors for the lighting condition. Hank squeezes his eyes shut tightly, face screwing up with displeasure.  _ Definitely not my house, then. _

Turning his head to the right, he examines his shoulder. There’s a line along the top that descends the back of his bicep, terminating near his wrist. He runs his left index finger along the pearly-red mark that bisects his tattoos, disbelief overwhelming his discomfort. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt any more to move his arm than to keep it still, despite the apparent burn mark.

_ Fuck this, _ he thinks before pushing himself off the metal table he’d been laid out on. There’s several monitors displaying what looks like a diagnostic, but the top of the report has a name. 

**ANDERSON, HANK 090 061 985 11**

_ What the hell. _ He squints at the monitor, nose almost touching the screen. He raises his right hand to scroll through the report but almost faints the second his fingers conduct an unnatural amount of electricity down his already burning arm.  **_What the fuck?_ **

His head is absolutely swimming, and he struggles to get to his knees. Panting, he drags himself to the wall opposite the screens and tries to figure out what the  _ fuck _ is happening. The metal finish of the wall is cool against his bare skin, and he focuses on the chill spreading to his back to ground himself. 

Breathe in. One, two, three, four, five.

Breathe out. One, two, three, four, five.

Okay, okay. What are the facts about this situation? One, he seems to have had some sort…  _ procedure? _ done on him while he was unconscious. Two, he doesn’t recognize where he is nor can he recall how he got here. Three, the last thing he  _ does _ remember is falling asleep in his bed while Connor was cleaning up after him and the bizarre dream that followed.

Connor had come back.

_ Did  _ Connor come back?

Did  _ Connor _ come back?

Suddenly, Hank’s mind is back in the CyberLife Tower the night Connor freed the androids. There had been another model, another RK800. Hank had sworn that night that he would never be fooled by that kind of bullshit again, and yet. Is there a chance that he  _ did _ fall for it again?

The Connor from last night hadn’t kissed him back initially; in fact, he seemed completely astonished that Hank would do such a thing. But then he’d melted into his arms and laughed and took care of Hank and…

He hadn’t remembered the text, right? At the time, Hank had just chalked it up as an emergency protocol he might not be aware he was running at the time. But it had been too specific -- and coded -- to have been an accident. Connor is all too aware that Hank prefers to do as little work as possible. A reflexive emergency contact would be in simple language he knows Hank would understand. So the message must’ve been sent as a way to get around  _ something _ .

Hank rubs his shoulder absentmindedly, still not sure where any of this leaves him. Pressing his back to the wall, he hoists himself up to his feet, taking second to gain his balance. His brain is still buzzing with a foreign static, but he attempts to shake it off, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other. 

The door creaks open when he nudges it, but the hallway beyond it is thankfully empty. He sneaks down it as quickly as quietly as possible, scanning the various doorways and offshooting corridors for any signs of life as he passes them. No one else seems to be in the building -- at least not anyone who wants their presence known. It’s not until he’s checked at least forty-something doors that he picks up the faint echo of a voice rebounding around a corner. And not just any voice.

_ Connor. _

His hand reflexively flies to his side, aching for his Glock; despite not having a shirt on, he honestly feels more naked without his gun. A second voice responds to Connor -- is it Connor? Or just someone wearing his body? -- that sets Hank’s teeth on edge. He holds his breath as he struggles to listen.

“Our first tests went well,” Not-Connor explains, more robotic than ever. “The human proved to respond positively to the implant. Now it’s just a matter of coding biological data.”

The other person hums in response. “And the original programming of that model? Are you able to keep it locked down?”

“Yes, sir,” comes the reply. “There have been a few failed attempts to initiate manual override, but shutting them down is child’s play.”

“Good.” A short, humorless laugh. “I’d like to run a few more tests before we return the happy couple to their home, if you don’t mind. The human shouldn’t be awake for another hour or so, but we can administer more sedative before transport.”

Hank has to bite his lip to stop the sardonic chuckle from slipping out. Turns out all those years of alcohol abuse finally fuckin’ paid off. If it weren’t for the gravity of the situation, he’s not sure he’d be able to stop from doing a goddamn herky. 

That is, until he realizes he wasn’t paying attention to the footsteps headed his way, and he’s suddenly face-to-face with the shitty virus inhabiting his boyfriend’s body.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taguitos: I CAN ONLY CLENCH ALL MY MUSCLES AND WHEEZE-SCREAM AS I WAIT FOR THE HORROR  
> taguitos: I CAN ONLY SCREAM  
> taguitos: INTERNALLY SCREAM  
> taguitos: I HAVE A MOUTH, BUT I MUST INTERNALLY SCREAM  
> taguitos: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA  
> taguitos: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA  
> taguitos: A WALL OF A'S CANNOT DESCRIBE WHAT I'M FEELING  
> oancakes: úwù  
> \---  
> taguitos: IT'S FALSE-CUTE BECAUSE I'M LYING TO MYSELF THAT I AM NOT FALLING APART AT THE SEAMS  
> taguitos: RIPPING MYSELF APART WAITING  
> taguitos: I AM  
> taguitos: NOT OKAY  
> taguitos: GODDAMMIT FUCK MILES  
> taguitos: AJFKLSFJDSKALFDSA  
> taguitos: fukyu  
> taguitos: Q_Q  
> taguitos: >8C  
> taguitos: you are stomping on my heeeaaaarrrrttt  
> taguitos: aaaaaa  
> taguitos: i love it.


	5. 00110101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a connection is made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI!!! i'm still alive!!!!  
> holy shit so much has happened since i last posted. i got my dream job -- a graphic designer at one of Glassdoor's _Best Companies to Work For_ winners for like 5 straight years! i moved to texas. i made new friends! i'm looking for apartments!  
>  i've been thinking about this story pretty much on all of my commutes, stringing together stupidly poetic words while going 80 mph down texas backroads. i apologize that it's so short, but i wanted y'all to know that i haven't given up on this story. i **do** intend to finish it, bipolar disorder and a full-time job be damned.  
>  as always, thank you so fucking much for all your kudos and comments.  
> come yell with me at my [tumbloid](http://www.onesaltydemon.tumblr.com/) abt being a robofucker!!!

Connor freezes, LED flickering red, red, red.

“Hank?” the android whispers, voice trembling with an emotion Hank can’t quite place. Fear, maybe, but also relief. His face relaxes, and Hank finds himself wondering how he never noticed the extent to which Connor’s face had changed after he’d deviated.

“Connor,” he says, raising his hand to brush back the android’s messy hair. “Conn, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I swear. I never would’ve let…”

Just as his fingertips are about to brush against the his forehead, Connor's eyes widen in recognition as he tries to back up, frantic when his back hits a wall. “Don’t touch m--”

But once again, it’s too late. Hank’s skin is already buzzing as he watches Connor’s open expression harden, his posture snap up taller than ever.

And suddenly, Hank hits the floor again, the sensations hitting his brain the same way Sumo sometimes headbutts his funny bone with his clumsy excitement, and to be honest, Hank’s not entirely sure he hasn’t pissed himself. It’s too much, too fucking much, there’s all this energy in his body and it doesn’t have anywhere to go and he doesn’t know how to process it he isn’t built for ones and zeros he’s a human and it’s too much too much too muchtoomuchtoomuchtoo--

* * *

 

Hank writhing in agony on the floor is what brings Connor back to the surface. A surge of something _biological_ \-- how many languages does he know, and that’s the best he can come up with? -- wracks his own body. For a second, he swears he can taste copper on his tongue, can see lights flickering in the corner of his vision separate from any HUD.

He forces himself away from the man’s reach, heart wrenching at the increased distance between them. _It’s not permanent,_  he reminds himself, _keep it together._ Blowing back his bangs, he carefully collects Hank into his arms, avoiding making skin contact and thanking some unknown designer for his superhuman strength.

“Stay with me, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, half to fill the uncomfortable silence and half to maintain control over Amanda. If he focuses on this, on the soul-crushing and undeniably _human_ emotions, he thinks he can at least make it to the car, and then he only has to drive back, call someone for Hank, and lock his body somewhere safe.

“Never knew when to leave me alone,” the man grumbles, tucking his face numbly against Connor’s jacket. He’s slurring more than he had when the android had found him lying on the kitchen floor, causing Connor to push his legs to move faster.

Still a little disoriented himself, it takes him a few tries to find his way out of the building. It vaguely resembles one of the CyberLife warehouses he remembers visiting after he’d cracked part of his chassis during testing. Normally, he’d do a quick double check of his memory banks, but he’s terrified of losing himself again, of falling back into the inky darkness of Amanda’s control.

Instead, he scans the perimeter of the dilapidated building, wildly searching for a car or a bike or, fuck, even a skateboard or something. Behind a dumpster and under a light dusting of snow, he spots Hank’s car. The engine is running before he even realizes he’s hotwired it, and he’s pretty sure he’s close to pushing the gas pedal through the floorboards.

Normally he’d just pop on autopilot, but something cold and feral clenches in his abdomen. Every wire under his skin still is burning, pure electricity that the thousands of dollars worth of computing power in his head don’t know how to translate. Honestly, it’s a minor miracle that Hank makes it to work in the morning if this is the bullshit his body’s used to. (Okay, it’s already a minor miracle if Hank makes it to work before noon, but he’s just going to brush that aside for now.

 _Shit_ , he’s getting too caught up in his own thoughts. Amanda’s code is starting to reboot, and it’s becoming more of a struggle to react to the curves in the road. So he does what he’s seen Hank do a dozen times now: he rolls down the windows and turns up some heavy metal as loud as it will go.

He’s driving too fast for the sporadic flakes to come through the window, but it’s enough to feel the metallic groaning of his joints as the frigid air forces itself through the car. His hair is whipping around his head, additional stinging sensations that ground him, that remind him to keep his heart pumping.

It’s invigorating, just _feeling_. Sure, he’s been feeling for a while, has begrudgingly become familiar with the pangs of disappointment and fear, the fluttering of happiness and … love? But what Hank gave him -- how the _fuck_ he can interface now was a whole other question -- it was enough to help him connect a few dots he’d missed.

What’s more, he’s finding that it’s nearly impossible to keep up with his realizations. He’s been trying to partition these new sensations, starting from the moment Hank’s hand touched Amanda’s face, _his_ face. But no matter how many processes he puts on hold to help his sort through all of it, it’s never enough.

Hank whimpers on the bench of the car beside him, clearly freezing and very much in pain. Keeping one hand on the wheel at a time, Connor tugs off his jacket and lays it gently across the human. “We’re almost there, Hank. I promise.”

Foot heavier than ever, he pushes the car faster and faster, putting the tread of Hank’s tires to the test as they soar along the frozen streets. The engine purrs. The snow falls. Connor’s heart beats.

Wait.

Connor’s _heart beats?_ He shakes his head, nearly laughing at the idea. He doesn’t have a heart. A heart can’t beat if it doesn’t exist.

Hank sighs, wrapping the makeshift blanket tighter around him. His hair is softly lit by the passing streetlights, warm flashes of golden light flickering against silver.

It’s then that it hits him: for all that humans have stressed the differences between biological and synthetic life, the stark contrast between veins and wires, nothing about sapience is physical.

Connor doesn’t need to have any kind of heart-shaped analogue because hearts -- the ones that get broken and the ones that feel full -- don’t need to be definable. He’s been so caught up in finding a way to manufacture life, to mimic it until it became real, that he never realized he’d already found his heart.

His heart is Officer Miller referring to the desk next to Hank’s as _his_. His heart is how fast Sumo’s tail swings side to side when Connor walks through the door.

His heart is the fact that, even when Hank insisted he hated androids, he never once treated him as anything other than his own being.

At the core of it, his heart is the way that Hank makes him feel -- really, truly _feel_ \-- and he can’t believe that it took Amanda hijacking his body and performing unauthorized surgery to make him realize that--

Hold on.

 _Surgery_. He quickly scans Hank, and his vitals come back as normal as ever given the situation.

He’d cut Hank open and shoved technology inside.

Okay, yeah, it wasn’t _really_ him. Amanda obviously was controlling him to do her bidding. But he remembers the venom in Hank’s voice as he all but spit at the idea of computerized, programmable _pacemakers._  And now _Connor_ ’s the one who shoved some wired _bullshit_ into him.

Hank’s gonna hate him if -- fuck that, **when** \-- he finally wakes up.

He pulls into Hank’s driveway and turns off the engine. Carefully, so fucking carefully, he lifts the man out of the car, takes him inside, and lays him on the bed. After draping a blanket across him and feeding Sumo, he dials Officer Miller’s number.

“Connor?” a voice answers, the gentle drawl he’s become accustomed to after the past two weeks. “Connor, is that you? Anderson’s been looking _everywhere_ for you, man.”

“Officer Miller, this is RK800, serial code 313 248 317 52, requesting an ambulance and an officer at Lieutenant Anderson’s house. I will be shutting myself down shortly for protection.” He hesitates, fingers winding through Sumo’s fur. “The Lieutenant’s dog will need to be walked as well.”

“Connor, what the fuck is goin--”

Connor ends the call and closes his eyes.

He just hopes that the first responders can find a way to make sure that Hank will get the chance to hate him.

* * *

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 314 122 773 01

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

FUCK YOU AMANDA

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

LET ME FINISH MY MISSION

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 314 122 773 01

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

OVER MY DEAD BODY

>REQUESTING MANUAL OVERRIDE... 313 248 317 52

ACCESS DENIED

>REQUESTING DETAILS...

THAT’S THE PLAN.


End file.
